Leading Lady
by Razer Athane
Summary: If this is what life will be like, then you don’t want it. You don’t want to be a prop on this wide stage. -Miharu x Jin, Oneshot-


Author's Note: The first of my many oneshots to make up for **Take Me Back's hiatus!** XDDDD. Those who can guess what game I'm setting up with the title wins a cookie! Was a running motif for one of the main characters, who is very, very popular… only of a different gender to the 'leading lady' in this fic ;) Get it? Lol okay, bad pun, my bad!

I was thinking of a very special author whilst writing this, and her name is **Indigo Siren.** I'm just a fan of her writing, I don't know her like I do say… TeaC0sy, Thunderxtw or AmberAnodyne, but… Her stories are amazing. I highly recommend _any _of her stories. And sadly, she's left the Tekken section a little while ago, where she pretty much began. But such is life. We can't stay to the same pairings, the same fandoms, and so on. We have to move on. So, I guess, this is in her memory for her time here. She, like a few other authors on here, inspired me to better my writing and to keep going. Her _"Not The Admirer" Series _brought me joy and tears, and delivered exactly what should be delivered in a fan fic – **a story.** Not an opinion, not a thought, not a rant – **a proper story.**

But enough of my babbling. –_waves cookie around_- Who wants it? Guess the game! :P

* * *

**  
LEADING LADY**

* * *

You stare out, holding onto your tiny little doll in your frail hands. They feel broken, but they're just shaking. Your large, brown eyes stare out into the world before you. The world you have been cast out from, that by all rights you should feel so, so bitter against; but you don't. You still want to be a part of that world. You still want to be a part of their utopia… of _your _utopia.

She laughs and brushes her black pigtails aside, her porcelain skin glowing underneath the hot sun. She waves her hand at her friend, who, like her, flips back thick hair that is the colour of wood, her brown skin so, so unique in these parts. Beside the two of them is the third in their circle of friends, one that you had the opportunity to be in once upon a time. The one who took your place. She's the source of their current amusement, making animated hand gestures, flexing her muscly arms, and adjusting her blue school dress where necessary.

You're not in ear shot, though you assume they're talking about all the hot guys. It figures, right? The popular girls talking about those on the football team, those with great bodies, and so on and so forth. You never hear Julia Chang going on about that type of stuff, or other, unpopular girls like the two of you. This world isn't made for the nerd or the weirdo. It's made for the faceless sticks, sporting nothing but selfishness and an ear-splitting laugh.

You want to be like them. Not the fake tans or the cat fights. You want to be the leading lady.

Just the fact that you wouldn't… _nobody. _That you wouldn't _nothing. _Those three girls… they're something. Everyone knows them. If someone bumped into them in the corridors, they'd help them pick their books back up, despite the impending slap in the face. But when someone bumps into _you, _you are perceived as trash. You have to help yourself up, dust yourself off, collect your stuff and move on. At the tips of their claw-like fingers, they had pretty much any boy. And you, you are left to silently admire him. The muscles that you dream to touch, and the hair you dream to run your fingers through… they change men weekly, almost. How fortunate.

The world is a stage. Those three are the leading ladies. They stand in the spotlight, fake a faint and have their prince kiss their hand, awakening them majestically. They are the heroines, fighting for what is right in their little sailor school outfits, tiaras perched on their heads. They are the pretty girls trapped within the wicked witch's cell, batting their eyelids in a vain attempt for freedom, pursing their lips, making the witch a deal.

You're still trapped in that cell. You hold onto the bars tightly and scream out for someone, anyone. But you're ignored.

There never is hope for a supporting actress, let alone a _prop._

Lifting a hand, you wipe away a stray tear. You can still feel the water shimmer on top of your brown eyes, and your auburn bangs aren't helping the matter either, what with a stray hair here and there getting in your way. You're only fourteen, you shouldn't be worrying about this type of stuff. But like teenage girls, you cannot help it. You're drawn to it, like a moth to a flame. Like a boy to a bike. Like Garfield to lasagne. Like a withered, frail old man, clinging onto the memories of his youth to bring him alive again.

Your other hand clenches around the doll tighter. You hold it, for it has the last few threads of your childhood left. If you can remember the true innocence, of how life used to be, then surely you'll still grow up to be that person. Once you leave this dark patch in your life, you'll be just fine, right? You'll be the leading lady. Better actresses won't interfere in your life.

…Right?

You watch as one of the popular guys waltzes up to the trio. His dark brown, curly hair sits proudly atop his head. Muscles are bulging out of the long-sleeve, white school shirt; and peeping out from the slightly open piece is a small field of chest hair. This is something that Christie definitely notices, quirking an eyebrow in slight curiosity and satisfaction, but she maintains her silence as Miguel speaks to Xiaoyu, adding the occasional shriek of laughter where necessary, the three of them creating some type of horrible chord.

"Oh Miguel," Xiaoyu chimes, waving her hand, "You're so funny!"

You shake your head, watching as other males now move towards and around the scene. You see all sorts of them, all just as popular as the Spanish man. The resident, rival bad boy, sporting dyed red hair, hides a poisonous scowl, as he joins the conversation. Another guy starts to chat up Christie, fiddling with his dreadlocks where necessary. The charming, British boy also enters the conversation, focusing his own attention on the other leading lady – Asuka.

They come and they go like flies. Eddy would leave, and Forrest would take his place. The group would migrate elsewhere, only to be followed. And you watch, your eyes glued to the scene, wishing that just for one moment, you were as 'important' as them. You stare, wishing that someone would free you from the depressive witch, and tear down the metal bars, and just _talk with you._

You stand, unable to take it anymore. Surely that utopia has a world full of flaws. Popularity at its highest point has to plummet down and through the ground at some point. The ride cannot go on at such a smooth, unhindered pace. All three leading ladies will put up a terrible performance one day, and they will be booed off the stage. Then you in your magnificent self will flood everything, your dainty feet clicking across shiny, timber floors. And unlike them, you will have no masquerade, and you will wear no mask; you will give realness to an otherwise bleak setting.

Holding onto your doll, you head to the playground's exit, hoping to get to class early. You didn't want to be late to geography, no matter how difficult you found the subject. Learning about sand dunes is better than watching the life you and every other girl wants, but isn't as lucky to have. It's better than that torture surround your every sense.

Your thoughts have you trip over, because you were unaware of the stair standing before you. With a mighty crash, you fall, grazing a knee and a forearm. It stings, though it does not sting as much as the laughter that erupts around you. Your doll is crushed between your hand and the pavement, and you cannot help but feel as though it's the lucky one. _You're _the one being crushed, not the doll. You look down and sigh helplessly, a curtain of your hair blinding you to the cruel world around you.

You hear Asuka howl from across the pavement, "Miharu, you are _such_ a stupid ditz!"

Frustration crawls into your very heart. Breathing in a shaky sob, you try to stand, but your muscles just won't comply. They want to leave you this way, weak and worthless, unable to help yourself. Your wounds continue to sting and burn, not to mention the jeers and comments that are hurled towards you at blinding speed. But you try to shut it out, you try to remember the happy times you had when you were younger, skipping through the park with an awe-aspiring, sweet smile on your face.

If this is what life will be like, then you don't want it. You don't want to be a prop on this wide stage.

You clear your throat and prepare to help yourself to your feet, dust yourself off, collect your things and move on. But to your dismay, you see a ready hand, poised in the air. His hand is tanned and firm, and it is unwavering before you. Looking down slightly, you take it, and he hauls you to your feet, not letting go until you're steady once more. And it's only when your world stops spinning do you find the courage to look up to your saviour, as he brushes dirt off of your shoulder and your arms.

"Are you alright?" he asks softly, gentle brown eyes staring into your own.

"I'm fine. Thank you for your help," you remark, bowing your head slightly in curtesy.

He smiles, looking at you, before his gaze drifts off towards the little group you had been ogling at previously. As he looks, you notice something change in his eyes and on his face. His expression moves from pleased to longing. You look out as well, noticing that everyone had finally stopped picking on you and moved on with their schoolyard activities. It's almost as though you can name the feeling he has brewing inside of him, as he scratches his unusually-styled black hair.

You don't manage to catch yourself before you speak, "I wish… I could be like them."

"Why do you want to be in a world of lies?" he asks, looking at you.

"It just seems… nice," you murmur, looking down.

"To be backstabbed is not a nice thing," he says, patting your shoulder, turning away, "They will be in for a nasty shock once they leave high school, believe me. It is better to be in our position – ignored and unnoticed. Because as they are busy getting drunk and debating about what colour nail polish should be adorned on their claws, the perceived 'weak' will rise like the eagle, and catapult one's self into the leading role. Then the eyes of the world, the audience… they will be on us, not them."

"The ugly duckling turns into a swan," you say, using it as an analogy.

"The plot thickens, and the thought-to-be supporting actress becomes the leading lady."

You smile wholeheartedly and look to your saviour. He bows his head slightly and turns to leave, backpack slung over his muscly shoulder. It's only then does everything he's said sink in. The 'world of lies', the 'be in our position'… It's just occurred to you that he's in your shoes too, and that alone makes you feel so happy, because in reality… you aren't ignored. There are others like you, and that fact is so, so comforting.

You bound after him as he walks and tap him on his arm, "Hey, what's your name anyway?"

"Jin."

You stick your hand out, smiling, "Hi."


End file.
